Damnatio Memoriae
Cynthia Lunn kicked her shoes off, fell onto the sofa and turned on the television with the remote she kept on her end table. Unable to afford cable TV or internet streaming, she relied on network and local television for her entertainment. Expecting the usual reality shows or scripted police dramas, she was stunned when she realized the station was airing a movie. And not just any movie.
"That's my movie!" she cried out into the silent apartment. "Or it should have been. It certainly would have been if not for that slug!"
Cynthia pressed the POWER button on the remote. She couldn't bear seeing Georgiana DeMille in the role that she had wanted so desperately. Like Cynthia, Georgiana had yet to make her name in films. After appearing in that movie, however, she went on to greater things, eventually earning herself a best actress Oscar.
"And what about my career? I ought to be living in a mansion in Brentwood, not this lousy one-room apartment a crummy one-horse town in Pennsylvania."
The bare walls of that small apartment suddenly seemed to close in on her. She had to get out before they crushed her. But where was she to go? It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the small town did not have much of a nightlife. Hell! It didn't have anything to offer even during the day. No mall. No Walmart. Just a few scattered mom-and-pop businesses that closed at five—about the same time they rolled up the sidewalks.
In need of a drink to deaden the smoldering embers of anger before thoughts of her ruined career rekindled them into roaring flames of rage, she grabbed her purse and car keys and headed for the door. Sitting behind the wheel of her fourteen-year-old rusted Subaru, she drove down Main Street, an incongruous name for such a rural thoroughfare. At the far end of the road was the only business still open at that hour: a dive bar with a neon sign above the door that read THE WET WHISTLE.
The exterior of the watering hole had no curb appeal, and the interior was not any better. Dim lighting made the dreary stained linoleum floor and the gloomy dark paneled walls appear even more uninviting. However, none of The Wet Whistle's customers came to the place for ambiance.
"I'll have whiskey," Cynthia announced when she sat down at the bar. "The cheapest brand you got. Make it a double."
Butch, the bartender, had seen the woman before. Rumor had it that she was once an actress. But looking at the haggard face of the middle-aged woman, he doubted the story. He handed her the glass, and she downed the drink.
"Want a refill?" he asked.
"Let me see how much I've got on me," she replied, removing her dollar store wallet from her Walmart purse.
Frowning, she laid a bill on the table and closed her handbag.
"It appears as though one is my limit tonight."
"Butch, get the lady another drink," instructed the man who sat two stools away from the former actress. "It's on me."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," he replied moving closer.
"Don't get any ideas," Cynthia warned him. "I'm not the kind of woman that can be had for the price of a drink."
"It never crossed my mind. No, I just want someone to talk to. That's all. Why don't you grab your glass, and we can go sit at a table."
No sooner did the two people take their seats than the late-night news appeared on the television above the bar. The photograph that accompanied the lead story caught the woman's attention.
"Harvey Weinstein," she said to herself.
"Did you ever meet him?" the man asked.
"Why do you ask that?"
"I heard it through the grapevine that you once worked in Hollywood."
"That's true. But I never met Weinstein. Frankly, I don't see what all the current fuss is about. It's not as though he is the only producer to use his power to get women."
"Are you defending his behavior?"
Cynthia's eyes narrowed as she looked at the handsome man sitting across the table from her. He appeared to be at least twenty years older than she was, but like Sean Connery, George Clooney and Richard Gere, his gray hair gave him an air of sophistication.
"Who are you anyway?"
"My name is Artemas Firth."
"And what is it you do, Mr. Firth?"
"I guess you could say I fix things."
"You're a repairman?"
"Something like that."
"You make it sound so vague. Why the big mystery?"
"I don't mean to sound mysterious. It's only that there is no real name for what I do. Like I said, I fix things but nothing mechanical or electronic. I fix people."
"Like a doctor or a therapist?"
"Not exactly. I fix their lives, help them rectify past mistakes and set them on the right course."
"Sounds to me like you're part probation officer and part life coach."
"I suppose I am."
Noticing Cynthia's glass was empty, Artemas signaled Butch to bring her another.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?" the former actress laughed.
"Not for the reason you might think."
"Why then?"
"I'm here to fix your past, and if you were sober, you might not be as receptive to my help."
"What do you know about my life?" she asked warily.
"A great deal. I know that when you were younger you had a promising career ahead of you. You appeared on such popular TV shows as Melrose Place, Mad About You, Ally McBeal, Friends ...."
"Did you look me up on Internet Movie Database?"
"No. I have other resources for my research."
"What is this?" she asked warily.
"I told you ...."
"Cut the bullshit! What do you really want?"
"Harmon Swynford," the elderly man said sotto voce.
The name sent a shiver down Cynthia's spine.
"He's your own personal Harvey Weinstein," Artemas continued. "The reason your promising career was derailed."
"When I got home from work—I'm a waitress at a diner ten miles west of here—I turned on the TV. The movie Tender Years was playing."
"An excellent film. That was Georgiana DeMille's breakout role."
"It was supposed to be my breakout role!" Cynthia cried with such anguish that she caught Butch's attention.
"Are you okay over there?" the bartender called.
"She's fine," Artemas answered on her behalf.
"The casting director loved my audition and immediately offered me the part."
"But you needed Swynford's approval as well, and that came with certain ... conditions."
"That slime! When I rejected his advances, he swore I'd never work in Hollywood again. I was blacklisted, and my agent was forced to drop me. In eight months, the only work I could find was a commercial for laundry soap. Finally, I gave up. I had no choice; I was broke. I had to borrow money from my family to get back east."
Artemas made no comment. He silently nodded to the bartender to get her another whiskey.
"So, Mr. Firth, just how do you intend to fix my life? Can you wave a magic wand and make me twenty-something years old again? Can you send me back in time where I can agree to that degenerate's terms and get the role that should have been mine in the first place?"
"No, but I can see that Harmon Swynford pays for what he did to you and to other women like yourself."
Cynthia's eyes widened as though she had received an epiphany.
"So, that's it! You're a goddamned lawyer! You want to go after Swynford like those other lawyers are going after Weinstein and Cosby."
"I only wish to see that Harmon Swynford gets what he deserves."
"And what is that?"
"Punishment."
"Forget about a lawsuit. He's richer than God. He won't miss the money. He would definitely not want to be incarcerated, but he can hire the best lawyers in the world to keep him out of jail."
"When I call him to reckoning, there isn't a lawyer in the world who can save him."
"You seem awfully sure of yourself, Mr. Firth," Cynthia said skeptically.
"I am."
"Would you mind telling me exactly what you plan to do to him?"
"Have you ever heard of the expression damnatio memoriae?"
"I can't say that I have."
"It's a Latin phrase meaning 'condemnation of memory.'"
"You plan on causing a scandal that will besmirch his name. Is that it?"
"Not exactly," Artemas answered, looking as sly as the proverbial fox. "Damnatio memoriae doesn't refer to blackening someone's reputation. It involves completely removing his name from people's memory. Statues are torn down. Paintings and other likenesses are destroyed. All reference to such an individual is removed from public documents. A good example of this is the Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaten. During his reign, he wanted to abandon the old gods and replace them with one deity, Aten. The people, however, were opposed to his monotheistic religion. After his death, his successors tried to erase Akhenaten from historical records."
"This isn't ancient Egypt," Cynthia argued. "We can't just chisel a name out of a stone stele."
"That's true, but we can obliterate Harmon Swynford from the public's consciousness just the same. It will be as though he never existed. And for a man with an ego the size of his, that will be a far worse punishment than a lengthy jail sentence or an expensive monetary settlement."
"And just how do you intend to accomplish such a feat? He's one of Hollywood's most celebrated producers. He's got a bookcase full of Oscars, Golden Globes and other awards. Hell, he's even got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame."
"It doesn't matter if he has his name on every theater marquee in the country. You and I together can take him down."
"But how?"
"With the finger of divine intervention."
Cynthia nearly burst out laughing, but she could see that Artemas Firth was not joking.
* * *
When Harmon woke on a warm, sunny morning in his Bel Air mansion, there was no hint of the nightmare that was about to engulf him. No harbinger of doom stalked him as he removed his custom-tailored silk pajamas, letting them drop to the floor for one of his servants to pick up, and headed toward his bathroom to take a hot shower. After he showered, shaved and dressed, he walked down the marble staircase to the dining room.
One of the maids, Juanita, an illegal alien who worked for far less money than an American citizen, stepped out of the kitchen as he sat down at the dining table.
"Who are you?" she asked in broken English, her voice quivering with fear.
"What do you mean? I'm your boss, that's who!"
Juanita's eyes darted from left to right as though she were looking for the nearest escape route.
"Go tell the cook that I'm waiting for my breakfast," he ordered and looked for the newspaper that ought to be beside his plate. "And where the devil is my paper?"
The panic-stricken señiorita hurried back to the kitchen.
"There's someone in the dining room," she cried.
Both the cook and the butler turned in her direction.
"Who is it?' Humphrey, the senior member of the household staff, calmly asked.
"I don't know," the frightened young woman replied. "I've never seen him before."
"I'll go see who it is and what he wants," the butler announced, putting down his teacup and heading for the dining room.
"Excuse me. Who are you and what are you doing in this house?"
"Not you, too!" Harmon exclaimed. "What's with you people? Have you both been into my liquor cabinet?"
"This is private property, and you're trespassing. I must ask you to leave. If you don't, I'll have no choice but to notify the authorities."
"What the ...? This is my house, and you're my goddamned employee. If you want to keep your job, I suggest you go back into the kitchen and see to my breakfast."
Humphrey removed a cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.
"You called the police on me? You can't be serious!" the producer screamed. "That's it; you're fired. And take that maid with you."
The butler, however, had no intention of leaving. He remained in the dining room until he heard the police car pull up in front of the house.
"He's in there," he told the responding officers, nodding his head toward the dining room.
"What are you, a paparazzi?" Patrolman Mace Hettrick asked.
"See here! I'm Harmon Swynford, the producer, and this is my house."
"The man is clearly deranged," Humphrey theorized.
"Come on, pal, let's go," Hettrick ordered, reaching for Harmon's arm.
"Didn't you hear me? I'm Harmon Swynford."
"Yeah, I got that. But I never heard of you, and this house belongs to Cynthia Lunn, the actress."
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but the producer could not place it. Besides, he was too upset by the morning's bizarre events to search his memory.
"You'll be sorry for this!" he threatened when the two police officers escorted him out the door and into the squad car. "I'm one of the most powerful men in this town. When I get through with the both of you, you'll be lucky to find work as a school crossing guard!"
"Is that so?" Mace laughed. "Well, if you're so powerful, how come I never heard of you?"
It was a question for which Harmon had no answer.
"Who's this you got?" Sergeant Ted Mackley inquired, his eyes sizing up the irate producer.
"He says his name is Harmon Swynford. We brought him in for trespassing. He got into Cynthia Lunn's house and claimed he was the owner. I'm thinking we might want to send him to the hospital for observation."
"I am Harmon Swynford," the man declared, clearly expecting everyone present to know who he was.
"Got an ID?" the sergeant asked.
"Not on me. These buffoons took me out of the house just as I was about to sit down to breakfast."
"About that, what were you doing in Miss Lunn's home?"
"That's my home!"
Ted and Mace exchanged looks. Apparently, the two men were of the same mind.
"Take him to the hospital," Sergeant Mackley instructed. "Let the shrinks sort out this mess."
* * *
When the overworked psychiatrist informed the patient that he could find no reference to Harmon Swynford anywhere on the internet, the producer called him a liar.
"Let me see that thing," he yelled, turning the doctor's laptop in his direction.
He quickly googled his name, but there were no results—just alternate spellings.
"That's impossible! I'm one of the most successful producers in Hollywood. I'm right up there with Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer."
"Them I've heard of," Dr. Radburn declared. "There are literally millions of results for them, but none for Harmon Swynford. That name doesn't even appear on any of the social media websites."
"How can that be?" the patient asked, clearly bewildered as the psychiatrist took back control of his computer.
"Have you ever used any other name? It's a common practice in Hollywood to change one's name."
"Do me a favor. Google Cynthia Lunn and see what you come up with?"
"Cynthia Lunn? She's an Oscar winner. Why do you want me to research her?"
"Because that damned butler insisted my house belonged to her."
Dr. Radburn typed the name in the search field and received more than seventy million results.
"It says here she lives on Chalon Road in Bel Air. Here's a photo of her mansion."
The psychiatrist turned the laptop in the patient's direction.
"That's it! That's my house!"
"No according to this website, it's not."
"I bought that house in 1992. I paid thirty-two million for it."
"It seems odd that a man who has that kind of money for a house can't be found on the internet," the psychiatrist said with a good deal of cynicism.
"What else does it say about her?"
"A lot. What do you want to know?"
"What has she ever done?"
"Let me see. Early in her career, she appeared in episodes of Friends, Law & Order, Murphy Brown and so on. It appears she got her big break in the movie Tender Years."
"That's wrong. Georgiana DeMille was the star," Harmon insisted. "I know. I produced that movie."
"According to Wikipedia, that movie was produced by a man named Artemas Firth."
"Never heard of him! No. Someone must have gone through a lot of trouble to play a practical joke on me. But he or she won't get away with it."
"I've got to be honest with you. There's no ring of truth in your story at all. I just watched that movie on television the other night," Dr. Radburn said. "My wife has it on DVD. Cynthia Lunn was the star. She was great in it. As for Georgiana DeMille, she only did a few made-for-TV movies. She's best known for her role in HBO's Luke and Lucy. That was before she got married and gave up acting to raise a family."
"No. No. No. NO!"
The patient rose from his seat and pounded his fists down on the psychiatrist's desk.
"Calm down, Mr. Swynford. Take your seat or I'll have no choice but to have the orderlies restrain you. If necessary, I'll sedate you."
Realizing it was no idle threat, the patient sat down again.
This is a nightmare! he thought. Maybe that's exactly what it is. I might be sleeping soundly in my bed right now.
If such was the case, how was he to wake himself up?
* * *
"You're free to go," the hospital orderly announced after unlocking the patient's door.
"Go? Go where?" Harmon asked.
"Leave. Your period of observation has come to an end, and the doctors don't believe you present a danger to either yourself or other people."
"But the police ...."
"Since the homeowner isn't going to press charges, they dropped the breaking and entering case."
Although delighted that he was once again a free man, Swynford had no idea where to go once he left the hospital. He had no car, no phone and no money. Just as panic rose in him, he looked down at his wrist and smiled.
"Thank God for my Rolex!"
Although the watch had cost him over seventy thousand, he was only able to get a fraction of that amount from the pawnbroker.
"Make sure you don't sell it!" he told the shady-looking individual behind the counter. "I'll be back to claim it soon."
Once he had money in his pocket, Harmon bought himself a prepaid cell phone. Without the contact list he kept in his iPhone, he had to rely on his memory alone for numbers. The first call he made was to Ileana, his ex-wife, a former film star who was now retired.
"It's me," he announced when she answered her private number.
"Me who?"
"Me, your ex-husband."
"Manny? It doesn't sound like you. Do you have a cold?"
"No. Your first ex-husband, Harmon."
"Is this some kind of joke? I've never been married to anyone named Harmon."
"Don't you start now. We were married ...."
Ileana gave him no opportunity to explain. She hung up the phone and refused to answer when he called back.
"I should have expected as much," he grumbled. "She was always a bitch."
As he walked toward the nearest bus stop, he placed a call to his lawyer's office. The secretary, unfamiliar with his name, refused to put the call through. He tried his bookie, his hair stylist, his masseuse, his publicist, his accountant and his tailor. None of them admitted to knowing him.
"What the hell is going on?"
It was a fifteen-minute bus ride to his office. During that quarter of an hour, he phoned numerous business associates: directors, actors, agents, screenwriters and fellow producers. The result was always the same. No one had ever heard of Harmon Swynford.
The bus came to a stop across the street from the producer's office. He quickly got up from his seat and exited the vehicle. When the bus continued down the road, he stood staring, dumbfounded, at the sign above the building.
"Artemas Firth Productions," he read. "What the hell?"
A car horn blared when he took a step off the curb.
"Watch where you're going, moron!" the driver screamed at him.
Once he was safely across the street, he entered the building that until this morning had been the office of his production company. He recognized the young woman who sat at the reception desk.
"Marlo, what's with that sign above the door?" he asked.
The blonde, who came to Hollywood hoping to make it in pictures but settled for being a receptionist, peered at his face with a questioning look.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"It's me, your boss, Harmon Swynford."
"I'm afraid you're mistaken. I work for Artemas Firth."
Could this Firth guy be the one who was responsible for the nightmare from which he could not wake? If so, he was the man Harmon needed to see.
"Let me talk to him."
"Do you have an appointment?" Marlo inquired.
"No. But I'm sure he'll want to see me. The name's Harmon Swynford."
As the receptionist picked up the phone, the front door opened. In walked an attractive middle-aged woman dressed in an outfit that probably cost as much as his hocked Rolex. Her face looked familiar.
"I know you," he said.
The cold smile she gave him would have doused a roaring fire.
"Harmon Swynford," she said.
"You know me!" he cried, his heart leaping in his chest.
"How could I forget you?"
"Mr. Firth is waiting for you, Miss Lunn," Marlo announced.
"I'm sure Artemas wants to meet with you as well, Harmon," the Oscar-winning actress said.
"Good. Because I have a few questions for him."
"I'm sure you do."
* * *
The glass and chrome modern décor that only the day before had been prevalent in the producer's spacious private office had been replaced by more traditional mahogany furniture. Likewise, the Gustav Klimt and Jackson Pollock paintings that hung on the wall were gone. In their place was a large reproduction of Michelangelo's The Last Judgment.
"I see you recognize the artwork," the distinguished-looking, white-haired man behind the desk observed.
"Yeah," Harmon said. "It's a smaller version of the fresco on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel."
"It's always been a favorite of mine. Of course, the ceiling has always gotten the most attention. Who isn't impressed by The Creation of Adam? But to me, God's finger giving life to the first man pales in comparison to the eternal judgment of mankind: the righteous ascending to heaven and the damned descending to hell."
"Look, Firth—I assume that's who you are."
Artemas nodded his head.
"I didn't come here to discuss art," Harmon declared in his usual belligerent manner. "I want to know why and how you've stolen my life from me."
"Damnation memoriae," the old man declared.
"Say what?"
"It's Latin for 'condemnation of memory.'"
The producer had expected the old man to deny knowledge of the crime. He was therefore astounded when Artemas freely admitted what he had done.
"You're saying you somehow altered my memory?"
That made sense. After all, he'd spoken to dozens of close acquaintances who denied knowing him. They couldn't all be part of a mass conspiracy; ergo, this weird situation must originate in his mind. Maybe he wasn't Harmon Swynford after all.
"No. Your memory is fine," Firth corrected him.
"I'll bet you even remember me," Cynthia said.
"You look familiar, but I don't recall ...."
"I auditioned for and got the lead in your movie Tender Years. Only I wasn't willing to accept your advances, so you blackballed me."
"So that's where I know you from," Harmon said, the memory finally surfacing. "You were much younger then—and prettier. But I must say, you're still a fine-looking woman. I wouldn't mind getting to know you better."
Cynthia turned away in disgust, not bothering to thank him for his somewhat sleazy compliment.
"You've grown older, too," Artemas said. "However, your added years have made you no wiser. You're still a reprobate."
"Hey! Who do you think ...?" the producer objected.
"Mr. Firth is a fixer," Cynthia announced.
The look of pained confusion on Harmon's face delighted her.
"What's a fixer?"
"It's my vocation to fix destinies that have gone awry," Firth explained.
"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about!"
"Miss Lunn here was destined to be a great film star. You ruined that for her. I had to step in and correct things."
"By taking over my life? The business I spent years building up?"
"No. I've got much more important things to do than produce movies. All this," Artemas said, indicating the private office, "is just temporary. By the end of the day, I'll have moved on, and someone else's name will be on the building. He will be given credit for producing the pictures you made. Miss Lunn, though, will keep your house."
"I'm comfortable there," the actress added.
"And what's to become of me?"
"Let's see. You were a waitress in a small town in Northeast Pennsylvania, weren't you, Cynthia?"
"Yes, I was. And I barely made enough money to keep a roof over my head and put food on the table."
"I could make you a waiter," Artemas told the producer, enjoying playing a cat-and-mouse game with him. "However, I'll make you a cook instead."
The old man rose from his chair, walked around the desk and raised his right arm. In a theatrical gesture, he pulled his sleeve up over the elbow and extended his hand. His index finger, posed like Michelangelo's finger of God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, pointed in Harmon Swynford's direction. Moments later, the former producer disappeared.
"That was impressive!" Cynthia exclaimed.
"Every once in a while, I have a flair for the dramatic," Firth admitted.
The self-proclaimed fixer turned toward the actress, took her hand and kissed it.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, my dear," he said.
"Likewise. I don't know how to thank you."
"No need."
"Will I see you again?"
"I'm afraid not. In fact, you won't even remember having met me."
"Are you a victim of damnatio memoriae, too?"
"Not exactly. But the powers that be think it best to keep my existence a secret. No, you won't remember me, Swynford, the diner in Pennsylvania or anything else from your altered existence. You've been given an altered history, and your world as you knew it is gone."
"Well, I hope ...."
A strange feeling suddenly came over Cynthia Lunn.
What am I doing in Ralph's office? she wondered.
"Miss Lunn?" Marlo said astonished when the actress walked out of her boss' office. "I didn't see you come in. I'm afraid Mr. Savino is out of town. Can I help you with anything?"
"No. I ... I was just leaving."
"Shall I tell Ralph to call you when I hear from him?"
"That won't be necessary."
As she the actress out onto the street, several tourists recognized her face.
"That's Cynthia Lunn!" one woman cried.
Moments later, a crowd gathered. Some people found the courage to ask for an autograph. Most kept their distance but took photos of her with their phones. As she scribbled her name on the back of an envelope for a teenager from South Carolina, she thought she saw a distinguished-looking, white-haired man smiling in her direction.
"I just love your pictures!" the teenager exclaimed as she pocketed the autograph.
Cynthia looked back for the old man in the crowd, but he was gone.
Funny! she thought. For a moment, I thought I recognized him.
For almost 500 years, Salem has been claiming that Michelangelo first painted The Creation of Salem on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel before replacing him with Adam.
